


Annie

by WhoaaKayy



Category: Covert Affairs
Genre: Annie - Safetysuit, F/M, Future, Pilot Episode, blind curiousness, dark!Annie. Kind of., facial exploring, song-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-29
Updated: 2012-02-29
Packaged: 2017-10-31 22:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/348999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoaaKayy/pseuds/WhoaaKayy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was a girl named Annie, she had a very pretty face. And not the way you would think so, let me see if I can try to explain it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annie

_There was a girl named Annie, she had a very pretty face. And not the way you would think so, let me see if I can try to explain it..._

 

For a name like Annie Walker, he wasn't expecting anyone special. The stereotypical girl he materialized in his mind's eye was shy, quirky, and completely unsure of herself. He also imagined a heavy footstep, a slight stammer, and nothing more than a kitten heel. He could almost _see_ the barely tamed, frizzy hair and boring pantsuit standing before him.

The door that he assumed was somewhere in front of him opened and he looked up from his wrist, curious. "Annie Walker?"

"Yes?" Replied a slightly uncertain, yet smooth voice. The smile he felt tugging at his lips was unstoppable; he just might've been proven wrong.

"Auggie Anderson, tech ops and your friendly neighborhood cruise director." He said, shaking her hand. He couldn't help but be mildly surprised at how soft her skin was, something no bookworm type-A nerd would be gifted with. He wouldn't be too shocked if there wasn't a single blemish anywhere on her body.

And, judging by her almost non-existent foot-fall and the way her quiet voice sort of reached up into his ears, he could assume that that body of hers was on the petite side.

Interesting, and more wrong by the second, he thought to himself. He liked to be proven wrong every once and awhile.

"Blind guy leading you around the CIA," he said as he opened the door. "Insert ironic joke here."

She didn't outright laugh, which showed him she wasn't one to kiss up too much. He almost missed the slight sound of her turning head, which made him almost sure that she had smiled.

Before he could make another comment, he smelled something. Something he'd been trying to figure out since she walked out the door.

"Jo Malone, Grapefruit?" He asked suddenly. He heard her falter in her step.

"Am I wearing too much perfume?" She asked, her voice shaking a little.

"No, no it's very subtle." He assured her, "a lot of ladies around here lay it on so thick it's like they're chumming for hammer-heads."

"Morning Auggie!" A woman said as his nose was attacked by something putrid, reminding him faintly of the Patron bottle in his drawer. She touched his arm.

"Hey Bee." He said kindly, sighing when the smell faded. He heard the door open behind them, "case and point." He muttered.

Her perfume teased his nose like a feather and he smiled as he listened to her calm, even footsteps.

He hadn't heard another guy talk to her yet, but he was pretty much sure she was _not_ what he expected.

 

\----

 

That was the first time he ever met Annie Walker, and after that moment, she grew more and more beautiful in his eyes.

Well, not his eyes, because obviously he couldn't see her.

She was different; he could sense that just by showing her the food court. The way Conrad's voice practically oozed lust-filled testosterone when he came up to them made that very clear. Conrad, though a self-acclaimed sex-god and an accumulatively acclaimed sleaze-ball, had never, in the history that Auggie had known him, talked to a girl like _that_.

Seriously, who knew peas could ever be used as a sexual innuendo?

He learned quickly she was contagious. She grew on you fast and she could make you feel things you—or even she—didn't know you were capable of feeling. Her smile, because he was always able to tell when she was really smiling, was electric. When he made her smile or even laugh, something surged through him, raw and powerful, and it was something he hadn't felt since the accident.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"I was special ops: Iraq. I got out of a Hum-V to look at what I thought was a dead dog and the next thing you know I'm Ray Charles." He gave a wry smile and turned away.

"...Oh." She said after a moment, comprehension dawning. "I was going to ask what the headphones were for."

He almost laughed, because he understood then she didn't care in the slightest that he was blind. Different most definitely described her.

As they got closer he came across the knowledge that she was, indeed, completely unsure of herself. It was the night she finally opened up and told him about her last boyfriend, the jerk that had left her without so much as paying the bar tab. Ever since then, he learned, she was never one-hundred percent confident in her decisions or even herself. Her clothes (which were apparently fashionable and much like a Washington D.C call girl—so says Joan) were her sister's choice; her hair was the result of not knowing what would best shape her face.

Ever since that fateful night, he knew how uncomfortable she was in her own skin, and he found himself looking at her in an entirely different light.

He groaned and mentally slapped himself; he wasn't making any sense.

"Do you ever wonder what I look like?" She asked him that night over wine.

The hand fingering his glass on the table stilled and he pointedly looked down at it. He was grateful that she had opened up to him, yes, and he had even opened up to her a little bit, but he was _not_ and would _never_ tell her just how desperate he was to have his sight back—even for a minute—just so he could memorize her face. He wanted to see her wonderful eyes that were apparently as warm and brown as a cup of coffee. He wished he could memorize the shape of her lips and how her nose fit so perfectly above them.

He—he didn't even know what shape her face was.

"It must be so frustrating to not know what the people around you look like." She continued, "I can't imagine it."

"Yeah, it can be a little irritating." He said to his hand, smiling slightly. "But you adapt."

"It must be cool though, to have all your other senses heightened." She said childishly. He could tell she was fiddling with her glass by the way her nails kept clinking against it, nervous.

"Well, I've become an expert wine taster." He said sarcastically, raising his glass. She chuckled.

"I was wondering though—"

"Annie," he cut her off kindly. Finally picking his head up to face her general direction. He knew dawdling when he saw—heard—it. "What would you like to ask me?"

"Touching things helps you get a better picture of what they look like, right?" She asked quietly. He took a deep breath, caught off-guard.

"Generally, yes—"

The sound of a chair being pulled across his hard wood floor startled him, making him jump back, alarmed. Her hand rested on his knee calmingly, and her other hand cupped his cheek. She was significantly closer now, obviously, but he wasn't so sure how okay he was with that.

"I want you to know what I look like," she said. Her voice was strong, a lot like when she was standing up for herself against Joan. If he could see, he was certain he'd see determination flashing through her eyes.

He took a moment to gather his thoughts, and then he slowly began his journey up her arm. He started by the hand that was on his knee, because it was the closest. His fingers brushed over the bone sticking out of her wrist, travelling up her forearm leisurely before circling around her elbow. When he reached her shoulder, feeling the bare warmth, he felt the strange desire to inquire about her wardrobe.

"What did you wear to our dinner?" He asked, somewhat bemused as he held the thin, silk strap between his fingers.

"A-a nice p-purple v-neck tank-top with a good pair of jeans," she stammered. He could feel the sudden heat burst on her shoulder, warming his hand. She was blushing, and he resisted the urge to smirk.

This could be fun.

"May I?" He asked, gesturing with his other hand to her ensemble. "I'd like to make sure it's up to par with my clothing choices." He gestured to his own white shirt, tie, and dark jeans with a polite smile.

"What happened to what I looked like?" She asked dumbly, her hand sliding off his knee.

"Oh I'll get to that, but if you don't mind." From his place on her shoulder, he could feel her nod. His hand then trailed down the same direction it took and rested on her knees. His other hand joined it.

"Simple, worn out denim." He said appreciatively, sliding his hands up to the middle of her thighs before quickly adjusting them to the sides of her legs, feeling the seams. "No elaborate seam design, so nothing flashy. Do you wear these often?"

"Yes," she managed.

He continued silently up the sides of her legs until he reached the hem of her shirt. "Odd material," he noted. His let his fingers walk themselves up her stomach, which was precariously still underneath them. When he reached her ribs, her breath hitched.

"Don't be shy, Annie. I wouldn't do anything out of line. I know my way around a girl's body. This really is a weird fabric." He couldn't help saying as he felt the rough, bunched material under his fingers. He felt glitter pieces embedded in the cloth. A clubbing shirt, maybe.

She couldn't help but let out a breathy laugh, "I know you do, mister Ladies' Man." She swallowed audibly, and for a second he thought she was going to say something else, but she remained silent.

He found her elbows again and made his way back up to her shoulders, avoiding the key part to any woman's body respectively. He felt something change in her composure though, but he must've imagined it.

He made his way down the neckline, taking in the sequined, elaborate collar. He stopped when he found the point any decent v-neck would end and cleared his throat awkwardly. "How much deeper does this go?"

"The collar is thick," she said through a slight laugh. "It's not deep like those scary dresses you can't wear a bra with, it's fine. You—" she took a breath. "You can keep going."

The heat he had felt on her shoulder minutes ago seemed to settle itself on the back of his neck as he clumsily nodded, letting his fingers trail delicately after the neckline. She was right, the actual "v" ended not far from where he stopped, but the collar itself didn't end until it was level with the base of her bosom.

It all clung to her quite well, too, if he said so himself.

"I know this can get a bit weird, so if you get freaked out just tell me and I'll stop." He told her, fingering the dips in her shoulder blades again. His fingers followed her bone structure on their own accord, and he absently marveled at just how well defined she really was. He had always loved seeing a prominent collarbone when he was sighted. There was something about it that just seemed so elegant to him. The crevices around her neck were like smooth caverns, and it was one of the most amazing things he'd ever felt.

"I want you to know what I look like," she said again. He nodded and felt his way up her neck.

He started with going up behind her ears, circling them. He rolled the small, circle earrings between his fingers, fascinated.

"Silver or gold?" He asked as he ran his thumb over the jewel encased in the metal. "What jewel?"

"Silver, and a diamond." She replied. He could hear the slightly smug smile in her voice and grinned in return.

"I'm Ray Charles, stupid questions like that come with the territory." He said as he continued down her jaw line. Angular, but not so square that it was obvious she got her father's jaw. Her chin was a straight shot down, round, and no dimple. It was certainly a jaw to take seriously.

His thumb brushed against her bottom lip without meaning to and took a sharp intake of air.

He'd come back to them later, he thought.

Her cheekbones were high, prominent. He was right on the first day he shook hands with her: not a single blemish. At least not on her face.

He traced her forehead and ran his fingers lightly over her eyebrows, letting them hover over the soft skin of her closed eyelids.

"You're not wearing makeup," he said, astonished. She laughed and he felt her shake her head underneath his touch.

"Is that so surprising?" She asked. Despite himself and what most people thought of blind men, he nodded. "I didn't know this would be happening. If I did I would've worn some."

"You have mascara on," he said distractedly. He was more concentrated than he originally thought. "You mean to tell me you don't usually wear makeup to our dinners?"

"Of course I do," she said, her voice shaking slightly as he ran his thumbs over the smooth skin underneath her eyes. He let his fingers slide languidly down the bridge of her nose. "I was just tired tonight, bad day."

"Tell me about it," he said, going over her face again. He wanted every beautiful detail imprinted on his brain so he could draw her in his mind. He smiled to himself: that meant her hair as well.

There were times when he hated being blind, and there were times when he didn't think about it. The special times like these, however, he absolutely loved his disability.

Like a kid in a candy shop, he delved his hands into the silky locks and ran his fingers through them; spreading them out as far as they would go before he came to the tips of her hair. He pulled the tips until he found where it ended—shoulder length.

"What color?" He felt stupid for asking, but he realized he never found out.

"W...what?" She asked, dazed. He ran his fingers through her hair again, from scalp to tip, to emphasize his point and heard her whimper quietly.

"Am I hurting you?" He asked, concerned. She shook her head quickly, choking. It dawned on him that he wasn't supposed to hear that. He cleared his throat and asked his original question again.

"Blonde..." She said quietly. "Dark blonde." He snorted.

"Bond...James Bond." He mimicked, making her laugh.

Slowly, he made his way back to her lips. His thumbs feathered over her cheeks and found the corner of her lips hesitantly, testing the waters. It was terribly difficult for him to hold himself back as he traced the impossibly soft skin.

"What color?" He asked again, transfixed on the curve of her upper lip.

"Light pink...I guess." She said self-consciously. "I've never taken the time to figure out the natural color of my lips."

"Sure you have," he said, grinning. "Every girl has."

Her cheeks warmed up under his hands and he pressed his palms flat against them, reveling in it.

"You're beautiful, Annie." He murmured, brushing his thumb back and forth over her lower lip.

"Liar," she said after a moment, smiling. He grinned back at her, about to retort, when something extraordinary happened.

She nipped at the tip of his thumb.

It was just for a second, and it was barely a brush of her teeth, but something inside him snapped. He lurched for her and she caught him, meeting him halfway in a heated, needy kiss. His arms circled her tiny waist and held her steady as she tied her fingers in his hair. It was amazing. Bliss, something he shouldn't even be feeling because—

Because she was his best friend, and she was still in love with that Sri-Lankan jerk.

It was sad, that the blind guy was in love with the bleeding-heart star spy of the ops team. He felt like he was back in middle school as the nerd having a crush on the popular chick.

He pulled back slightly, wishing he could see her. "Annie," he mumbled thickly. "We can't do this."

"Why not?" She asked him, her voice sounding much clearer than his. That was a pleasant thought; that she was in a better mindset than he was.

"Because..."

He couldn't tell her. He knew it would ruin everything. He was blind, for Christ sake. If she didn't want to see him, it wasn't that hard to avoid him. Buy new heels, wear a different perfume, and walk quietly out the room every time he walked in. He would never know.

"Annie, you're beautiful." He said again, trying to find a way out of this. He raked her hair back with his fingers and kissed her forehead. "I know how beautiful you are now, even though I didn't doubt it for a second. This just...wouldn't be good for us."

"Why not?" She asked again, a little more desperately.

Because I'm more in love with you then you could ever be in love with me? Because you're still madly in love with Bracelet Bimbo who has miraculously saved your life hundreds of times? Because I'm _blind_? All of these seemed like perfect answers, but he couldn't bring himself to say them.

She dropped her head to his chest and sighed. Resting his head on top of hers, he hugged her tightly. "Annie, just trust me."

"I do that enough already." She said, and a salty sent assaulted his nose. She was crying. She picked her head up—he supposed she was looking up at him. "I've trusted you with my life countless times for years. You keep me safe no matter what happens and you're always there for me whether I need partner in crime or a fake date or a shoulder to cry on." She sniffed and he felt his heart clench painfully.

"Don't cry, Annie, please—"

"I'm not even good enough for a blind guy." She muttered darkly, ignoring him and turning sharply out of his embrace.

"Annie!" He yelled as the heard the door slam shut. That had hurt, but what hurt more was he made her cry. Of course she was good enough for him, there wasn't ever another girl better for him. The point was she deserved more than a blind computer super-geek. She deserved a strong, intelligent, macho man who could _see_ just how beautiful she was.

He couldn't give her that, and he couldn't take that away from her, either.

 

_I always have to stop myself, 'cause you're beautiful._

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: don't own.
> 
> Originally posted at FF.net on July 22nd, 2010.
> 
> Hauling everything over because I go on here more than I go on FF.


End file.
